


From Eden

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (basically like everything else I write), Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Smut, and some existentialism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3805738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel wakes up when the first rays of light brush tentative fingers inside their room. It's very early, and the bunker is quiet. He could stretch and get dressed and get up for breakfast, but he does none of that, because Dean is still asleep next to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Eden

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet came to me while listening to the song of the same name by Hozier, and it was initially meant to cheer up a friend who'd had a rough day; only then it sort of devolved into a jumble of fluff and smut and it got longer than I expected and... yeah. It's the thought that counts, right?  
> A big, big thank you to [museaway](http://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway) for coming through and beta-ing this-- you're awesome! <3
>
>> 
>>         _honey, ask me, I should know / I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door._
>>       

Castiel wakes up when the first rays of light brush tentative fingers inside their room. It's very early, and the bunker is quiet. He could stretch and get dressed and get up for breakfast, but he does none of that, because Dean is still asleep next to him.

 _Dean is asleep next to him,_ and this incredibly mundane fact sparks a joy inside him akin to the most profound revelation.

It wasn't an immediately easy thing, for them to start sharing sleeping quarters. Before, Castiel didn't sleep at all. And afterwards... well, sharing a bed with a hunter is tricky. Castiel accidentally kicking Dean in his sleep could result in Dean bolting upright, gun in hand, and tackling him, both of them breathless with adrenaline. It had taken a while for him to adjust to Castiel's – now very human – presence in his bed. It had taken a while for Castiel to learn how to fall asleep without hours of endless thinking, too. In fact, all of this – this new thing they are navigating together – took some work and some time, as Castiel is learning most human things do; and it is frustrating, because their time is limited– but none of that matters now, because they're in bed together, and Dean is asleep.

Castiel props himself up on an elbow to take him in, all of him; he feasts his eyes on Dean's sleeping form like Dean is rainwater after a long drought. In sleep, the tired lines of Dean's face melt into something softer, almost defenceless, plush lips slightly parted; he looks very young, as young as when they'd first met, untouched by the last five years of struggles and pain. Castiel loves the marks on Dean, down to the last wrinkle and scar, because they're visible proof of what an exceptional man he is. They're a testament to his heart and his tragic courage, a courage which saved the world more than once, even as it ripped Dean himself apart.

There is beauty in tragedy, Castiel knows– but it's something of a balm on his heart to see Dean this peaceful, long eyelashes resting on his cheekbones, his eyelids hiding the startling green behind them. Castiel considers leaning in to kiss them, weighs his options, then thinks better of it. Dean needs to sleep, and Castiel is glad to give him that, and glad for the opportunity to pay silent worship to the man he loves.

During the extremely long time Castiel has lived, he has marvelled at many things, but mostly at the way humans manage to find happiness in such a meager lot as that of their lives. The thing is, to an angel, there's just _not that much_ to human life. Humans are beautifully wrought works of art, but they last the space of a sigh before disappearing back into nothingness, as the stars watch on, impassive. Castiel has guarded human souls in Heaven long enough to know that the spark, the fire – that handprint of his Father that set humans apart from everyone else – flickers and wanes once they’re awash in Heaven’s artificial bliss.

Humans are born, they grow up, they die; sometimes they accomplish something noteworthy, and those are the humans that tend to spark any interest in angels at all. But even then, unfailingly, they fade, and the stars – the old, old stars – still stand watch. Castiel had stood watch too, studying the apparent inconsequentiality of human existence, and, by contrast, how much value humans seemed to find in it. And watching the sheer emotion they invested in their mundane struggles, he'd found it confusing, irrational. Castiel did not understand it, the way they acted as if every moment might hold the meaning of the universe inside it. He pitied them for it, and envied them, somehow, but he did not _understand._

Until the day he did, and then nothing was the same again.

And this is why he's so enamored with the sight of Dean's capable, strong hands lying loose and relaxed, one resting on his chest, the other flung carelessly above his head. The rise and fall of his chest is mesmerizing, and all the more precious to Castiel because of what it signifies.

 _You're alive_ , he thinks. _You're breathing next to me and you are mine_ , he thinks, and smiles, because he finally sees now, he understands how humans move from one incandescent moment to the next, never worried about their impermanence. They don't _need_ to last forever, because any one moment can be everything and mean everything and be cherished for a lifetime.

And just like that, it all makes sense: Dean's stubborn refusal to accept paradise on earth all those years ago, his horror at the idea of giving up humanity for an endless stretch of lukewarm contentment. Castiel understands him, and understands why Anna fell, and he knows he'd fall again, over and over, just to have this. _Let the stars stand watch and grow even older,_ he thinks, _for they have nothing as sweet as this._

Dean shifts in his sleep, his breathing getting quicker, less sleep-heavy. Castiel has to lean in, fit his lips to Dean's for a moment, suck that breath into his own mouth, revelling in the warmth and aliveness and _here-_ ness of Dean.

“Mornin'”, Dean mumbles against his lips when Castiel starts to pull back. “What're _you_ smilin' at?”, he asks, unable to hold back a shy little smile of his own. It makes Castiel's heart swell, because Dean doesn't usually smile like that, so this is for him, all for him.

“I was watching you sleep. I like that, very much. And I like you very much as well.”

Dean opens his mouth, probably to object that that's creepy, but no words come out, his smile growing wider instead. They're past pretending, especially in moments like this one, when Dean is soft and rumpled at the edges, his bravado and sarcasm discarded like a winter coat when summer comes knocking.

“I like you too, you sap.”

Castiel just looks at him, smiling. It's enough. This, between them, is enough, and he never even dreamed it could be, before he fell. That just sharing the same air as someone, being able to look at them and touch them whenever you want– that it could feel like immortality squeezed into the early morning sun.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dean says, rolling onto his side and stretching luxuriously. Castiel's chest grows tight and warm, quickly followed by the rising heat in his abdomen.

“I was just thinking,” he starts, reaching out a hand to run fingers down Dean's chest, butterfly-soft, “that human life is nothing more than a series of fleeting moments.”

“...Okay. Um...” Dean frowns a little, unsure how to take this philosophical statement so early in the day. “...Sorry?” he offers, a shade of guilt starting to tinge his expression, because – _of course,_  Castiel thinks with a pang of frustration – Dean will always blame himself for Castiel giving up his Grace.

“Don't be.” Castiel’s voice is firm, almost commanding, and Dean flinches minutely in response. “This is a gift.”

“A gift?” Dean is skeptical, and Castiel can't fault him for that. He has no idea what it's like – to watch millennia and millennia go by, nothing standing out, nothing affecting you, the world spinning on its axis relentlessly a thousand thousand times, until– _until._ Until a man stubbornly planted his feet down to halt it, and demanded Castiel do the same.

“A gift.” Castiel runs his hand through Dean's hair, mussing it up. “Every moment that goes by is unique, and I get to have it. For myself. I get to be in it, and to _live_ in it, and to remember I have felt this way. Humanity is... all of your moments _belong_ to you, Dean. You are masters of your own existence, and that's more than any angel can say.” He touches Dean's forehead gently, watches the frown slowly melt away under his fingers.

“So, thank you. I would do it all over again, you understand– I have no interest in living forever if I can't _live._ ”

Dean is silent for a moment, his eyes filling with an emotion he can't put into words – they both know he'd get choked up if he tried – so he simply surges forward and kisses Castiel full on the mouth, hands on either side of his face, bringing their naked bodies closer together. Castiel shivers.

“I hope I give you lots of moments, then,” Dean says against his jaw. “All the moments you can squeeze out of me.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Dude, like you need one?”

Castiel laughs a little, low in his throat, because no, he doesn't, neither of them does, so he just rolls Dean onto his back again and starts kissing his way down.

He maps Dean's chest with lips and tongue like it's uncharted territory, pausing to graze his teeth against a nipple and delighting in the resulting shudder. Then southwards again, his arousal sending spikes of heat through his belly whenever it rubs against Dean's thigh, as he lavishes attentions on Dean's stomach, nibbling at the wonderful slight softness there that Dean is not-so-secretly embarrassed about.

“I love you,” he says. When he looks up, Dean's biting his bottom lip, his cheeks gorgeously pink, and it sends a rush straight to Castiel's pounding heart. “I love you,” he repeats, because Dean deserves to hear it and because it's true; because this moment is theirs alone, forever.

Dean doesn't speak, or perhaps he can't, but his hand settles in Castiel's hair so gently, so tenderly, that no words are needed; certainly not by Castiel, who is more than happy to continue on his path, finally, _finally_ taking Dean into his mouth.

They're still fairly new at this, but it feels like they've been doing it for eons, the way their bodies fall into each other easily, a bit messily at first but always finding their pace soon enough. The sun paints mosaics on the wall as the room fills with Dean's soft moans, his whispered curses, and eventually, “Wait– Cas, just–” he croaks, tugging shakily on Castiel’s hair.

Castiel pulls off with a muted 'pop' that echoes obscenely in the morning silence, making Dean groan like he's in pain. Castiel just smiles, rests his chin on Dean's hip. “Yeah?”

“I want. Um, I want. I need you to... ah, _fuck–”_

“It'd be my pleasure,” Castiel offers, lips tilting up at the corner.

“Wh– that's not what I meant, you asshat!” Dean protests with a burst of laughter, then licks his lips. “...Okay, yeah, it's actually kind of what I meant though. Get up here,” he says, and Castiel goes. Once they're eye to eye, however, Dean seems to waver again.

“Listen. You know I... this, here, with you? It's the happiest I've ever been. I just. I want you to know that. I _need_ you to know that.”

Castiel just nods, because it's his turn to be choked up, it seems. He can tell, without seeing, that his mouth has unfurled in that huge lopsided grin he apparently always gets around Dean, if Charlie is to be believed, and his eyes are stinging. He hides his face in Dean's neck, breathing him in, lips parted against his skin and tasting salt.

“Cas?” Dean calls, voice a little rough, and Castiel can feel his throat working as he swallows. “You are too, right? ...Happy?”

The plea in his voice is so raw that it makes Castiel's heart constrict painfully, and he almost headbutts Dean's chin in his haste to meet Dean's eyes. When he does, he holds them steadily, as intensely as he can, doesn't let them wander for a second, because this is vital.

“There is nothing, _no one_ , anywhere, that could make me happier than I am here with you. So stop worrying that you've cost me heaven, because this, this is it for me. This is the Garden. _This_ is paradise.”

Dean makes a wounded noise in his throat, and it's all Castiel can do to kiss it out of him, holding nothing back, lips parting eagerly when Dean's tongue coaxes them open.

“Want you,” Dean murmurs on a half-gasp, “Want you in me. Now. Please, just– _now_?”

The lube is cold but their bedsheets are still warm, so it's all fine, it's perfect, really, as Castiel works one finger inside Dean, then two, then finally three, looking up worriedly when his hand slips and Dean hisses a soft _ow!_ , but on his next slip he hits Dean's prostate, and that gets a whole different kind of noise, so everything's good.

It's even better once they're _there_ , Castiel sliding home inside Dean's body like that's where he belongs – _it is,_ he thinks, _this is where I belong, where I've always belonged_ – and then they're going, going, _gone,_ lost to the way their bodies crash into each other.

“Ah– Cas– yes, fuck, _yes_ –” Dean is a miracle in motion, forehead beading with sweat and green eyes shining, as he lifts his legs around Castiel's hips, ankles crossing at the small of Castiel's back.

“Don't stop, God, just– there, right there, _please_ , yes...!” Dean sounds wrecked, and if he keeps up like this, this will all be over regrettably soon, so Castiel kisses him silent, capturing his bottom lip in his own mouth, biting only hard enough to warn but not to hurt, never to hurt, never again. His hand, the one that is not currently pressing bruises into Dean's hip, finds Dean's right hand where it's clutching the pillow, and Castiel intertwines their fingers together, half apology and half promise.

Their fingers are still entwined when Dean comes, not too long after, squeezing Castiel's hand tightly enough to send a twinge of pain through his forearm, and perhaps that's what does it, what tips the intensity over from _too much_ into _too fucking much_ , causing Castiel to topple right after him, a choked-off Enochian curse on his lips.

Afterwards, they lie in bed with their legs still tangled together, panting softly as they try to catch their breath– catch up to their racing hearts, maybe.

“So,” Dean starts, arm slung lazily around Castiel's shoulder, knuckles stroking his arm. “That was definitely... a moment, huh.”

“I'd say it was more than just _a moment_ ,” Castiel huffs, faking indignancy just for the sake of making Dean laugh. He does, and Castiel swears in that moment all must be right with the world.

“Yeah, yeah. You're a regular Casanova,” Dean chuckles, kissing the tip of nose.

Castiel scrunches up his nose, making a noncommittal sound. “I don't know about that. I have no intentions of seducing anyone else for the foreseeable future.”

“You'd better not, dude.” Dean pokes his shoulder with a bit more force than necessary, simultaneously pulling him close by hooking his leg around Castiel's thigh. “...Me either, by the way.”

“Good,” Cas smiles, and lays his head on Dean's shoulder, perfectly content.

Human lives are limited, fleeting, a terrifying jumble of shining moments plucked from chaos and chance, and there is no knowing when the next one will come along. All Castiel knows – right here, right now, down-to-his-bones knows – is that he'd pick any one of them over a Deanless eternity.


End file.
